


"Why didn't you tell me?"

by sunshineandsnow (orphan_account)



Series: if I fall and hurt myself, would you know how to fix me? [1]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Wanda is sad and Bucky helps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 17:37:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10036463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/sunshineandsnow
Summary: Anonymous ontumblrsaid: "For the hurt/comfort prompts, #18 for Winterwitch? Thanks!!!"





	

Wanda is quieter than usual this morning. The early light slants across her face, shadows playing in the witch’s green-gray irises. Bucky watches her from across the breakfast table—observes the dullness of her gaze, the slow sips she takes of her chai tea. She seems… distracted, to say the least, and he’s hard-pressed to figure out why.

“You’re staring,” Wanda murmurs, smiling at the concentrated expression on Bucky’s face. Childish embarrassment colors his cheeks as he searches for an adequate apology. His fingers wear at the fabric of his shirtsleeves, his line of sight falling to the tabletop.

“You’re nice to look at,” he offers, pathetically, catching her gaze for a split-second, heart soaring at the almost laugh trembling on her lips. But it fades to a sad smile and he’s wondering again. Something feels wrong, about Wanda—like while they were sleeping someone came and snipped a lock of her hair or stole one of her favorite rings. She looks incomplete.

“Are you… okay?” he asks, in a hesitant tone. He despises the question, for its insufficiency, its’ vague manner. But it is the only fitting phrase he can pull from memory.

Wanda takes a long, finishing sip of her tea before answering. “I will be alright,” she whispers. The empty mug is placed in the sink, and she walks off, leaving him to the silence of the kitchen.

Bucky thinks about her throughout the day, as he handles his responsibilities around the compound. Steve had drawn up a short list of tasks for the soldier a while back, and nothing too compelling—some maintenance here, a bit of cleaning or organization there. It keeps him busy, keeps him feeling productive and _useful_ —unlike how he feels with Wanda, on days like this, when there is something so obviously wrong, so obviously in need of _fixing._

About noon—after a quick check on Wanda, who is sitting on her bed, reading—he heads out for a run with Sam. They take laps around the compound, sharing nothing but the pounding of their shoes on the ground, their heavy breaths, and the ache and strain of each muscle. Sam’s the first to call it, slowing to a stop near the wall and pressing his palms against the cool surface. Bucky plunks to the ground, barely sweating, a smug smile on his face. “Tired already, Wilson?”

Sam just shakes his head, chuckling. “All you super soldiers are the same. Can’t give a man a break,” he clarifies, sitting down beside Barnes. There’s a stretch of comfortable silence, before Sam asks, “How’s Wanda today?”

Thrown off by the question, Bucky stutters a response: “She’s—well, it’s—it’s not one of her good days.”

“Yeah, couldn’t expect it to be,” Sam replies, staring at something in the distance. “Poor kid.”

Bucky, at a loss for words, has the keenest sense he’s missing a vital piece of information, something he’ll kick himself for later. Sam notices his friend’s silence and does a double-take. “You—you do know what today is, right?”

“It’s… Wednesday,” Bucky replies, lamely.

“No shit,” Sam says, rolling his eyes. “Barnes, you’re a piece of work, y’know?” _I know_ , Bucky thinks, _I know._ “It’s the anniversary of her brother’s death,” Sam enunciates. “Almost three years, now. How do you not know this stuff? You two are practically dating.”

His mind stalls as the information filters through the layers of his thoughts. _Anniversary of her brother’s death_. _Three years._ Tears sting the back of his throat. _Oh, Wanda_. _Oh._

“I—I have to go,” Bucky mumbles, scrambling to his feet and heading back to the compound. The events of the morning slot into place as he makes the connections in his head. All he can really think is, _Wanda. I have to get to Wanda._ He remembers feeling this way once before, when the team had gone on a mission and Wanda had been injured. His brain overloaded with frenzy and worry, and yet, through it all: the _need_ to be at Wanda’s side, holding her hand, keeping her close and as safe as he could manage.

He feels guilty about bursting into Wanda’s room, no knock or permission granted—but she’s hunched at the foot of her bed, shaking hands masking her face, sobbing, quietly.  His heart breaks for her. Not even the fear, the anxiety of making the wrong move could hold him back from her; not even his own stupid inhibitions could keep him from her side.

He hugs her close, kisses the top of her head, gently, so gently. She is small in his big arms—he’s afraid he might break her.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispers into her soft curls, voice breaking. Her eyes are red-rimmed when she looks up at him. She touches his cheek, as if to smooth away the expression of hurt on his face.

“It’s not that I didn’t want to,” she chokes out. “It’s just… so hard, to talk about—to remember, every day…” She cries, and all he can do is hold her. _It doesn’t feel like enough. Oh, god, I’m not enough._

As if she’s heard his thoughts—and he doesn’t put it past her, really—she presses her knuckles to his chest, clenching the fabric of his shirt. “No, no. You’re enough. You are _more_ than enough. You are more than I deserve,” she whimpers.

“The only person,” she says, meeting his gaze, a lost and pleading look to her eyes. “The only person who loved me, even half as much as you do, was my brother. And he’s gone, now.” Her voice crumbles as the words leave her lips.

He feels her grief so intensely, as if it was his own. He finds it sickening and funny, in that way only ironic and sad facts can be, to mourn a perfect stranger. But it’s Wanda—how can he _not_ cry for her, with her?

“You’re not alone,” he offers weakly, still feeling insufficient, inadequate, so unlike the ideal soldier HYDRA had molded him to be. Maybe that’s the point—for them, he wasn’t enough. But, for Wanda, he can just _be_.

“I know,” she says, smiling softly at him. “I have you,” she whispers, and it sounds like a promise. He cradles her in his arms. They hold each other, quietly.

**Author's Note:**

> Message my [tumblr](http://winterxblood.tumblr.com/ask)!


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